Page 25 of Her Saltwater Cowboy

Her second thought was whether that fact presented a foreboding about her mother’s care. Would they ignore her the way they always seemed to ignore that front door’s glass?

The sharp burn of antiseptic that hit her sinuses as she stepped inside was, in some way, a relief. Cleanliness being next to godliness wasn’t actually in the Bible, but as Willow scrubbed the Sutter kitchen each day, she thought it ought to be.

The care home was tucked along a leafy stretch of road just four miles from the ranch. When she’d found this job, so close to her mother’s residence, she took it as a sign from the Almighty himself that everything was under his control.

Inside the building, she instinctively reached inside her puffy jacket pocket. The envelope was still there—inside, a progress report, notes from her mother’s last wellness check, and a folded copy of the parole schedule. Everything Mr. Landson would ask about.

Her fingers brushed against the soft cotton lining of her pocket, and—for just a moment—she wished she could leave it all here. Just be the cook at Sutter Creek Ranch. Just plan meals and fill plates and learn Chance’s quirks without worrying that one wrong move would unravel everything.

But that wasn’t her life. It hadn’t been for a long time.

The staff member in the lobby greeted her with a nod. They knew her by now. She handed the woman a plate of molasses cookies. She smiled and hugged them to her.

“Mr. Landson’s in the family room,” the woman said, gesturing toward the east wing while still holding onto the plate. “He said to send you straight back.”

Willow smiled politely, keeping her head low as she made her way down the corridor. She passed a nurse adjusting a resident’s blanket, the soft murmur of television coming from a partially open door, and finally reached the room with the wide windows overlooking the garden.

Jack Landson sat at a square table near the glass, his iPad open. He looked up when she entered, offered a conciliatory smile, and motioned for her to sit.

“Appreciate you coming, Ms. Mercer.”

Willow slid into the chair opposite him, laying her handbag on her lap. “Of course.”

Landson studied her for a moment, then turned and began to scroll through his notes. “Your mother’s doing well, overall. No incidents logged in the last six weeks. Her medication’s on track and therapy sessions consistent.”

Willow nodded, exhaling quietly. “She seems calmer lately.”

“Stability helps,” he said. “So does a predictable environment. I'm glad you agreed to move her here. How has your transition been?”

“Straightforward. I think we both like it here.”

He nodded.

“It’s just …”

One brow rose. “Yes?”

She leaned forward. “My mother has always hated feeling, you know, confined.”

He removed his glasses and laid them on the table. “Being here is a condition of her parole, Willow. And you’ve made it clear that you want to keep her close. That’s working, for now. But we do have to review her status every quarter.”

Willow leaned forward, hands clasped in her lap. “Is something wrong?”

Landson tapped the pen against his notepad. “Not wrong, no. But her name came up in a routine audit. A note from six years ago mentions your uncle. There was a warning to avoid contact.”

Willow’s breathing hitched.

Landson glanced up. “Are you aware of any recent attempts by him to reach out?”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, he hasn’t contacted her.”

“You sure?”

“I would know.” Her voice was firm now. “He doesn’t know where she is. And I’ve made certain he never will.”

There was a pause. Landson watched her as if she were testifying on the witness stand.

“I assume you’d notify us immediately if something changed?”

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